


Show Me

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M, NSFW, Tabristair - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being caught red-handed by your lover? Not always a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [fanart from therealmcgee](http://therealmcgee.tumblr.com/post/127619969039/eeveevie-eternalshiva-let-the-battle-beginnnn) on Tumblr and copious amounts of listening to both "Do I Wanna Know" and "R U Mine" by the Arctic Monkeys.

It’s not the act of catching Alistair that startles Aeron—rather, it’s the act she catches him doing. Even though most of the jokes about his sheltered upbringing lean towards being untrue, she has always suspected him of not knowing at least a few things.

Given the state of his undress, the hand towel lying nearby, the way Alistair stammers and rushes to hide himself; it certainly turns out the habit of self-pleasure was higher on her list than it should have been.

“I—this isn’t—I know what this looks like—”

“And certainly sounded like! I was actually a little concerned—until I took a better listen.” Aeron crosses her arms, her smile surely like that of a cat with a trapped canary. “That is _not_ the way you sound when you’re in pain, Alistair.”

He tries to look stern—to glare at her, even—but the intense blush on his face and chest do him no favors.

Neither does the fact that his smallclothes are still down around his thighs.

“By all means,” Aeron tells him as she enters further into the tent, “don’t let me stop you.”

Alistair blinks. “I w—”

“I’m serious! It’s really no trouble. Perfectly natural, in fact, despite the lies the Chantry spins about eternal itching and scaly palms—”

_“Aeron—!”_

But she only giggles and crouches down in the corner designated for her things, eager to crawl out of the more confining pieces of her clothing. The silence that settles in is uneven. It makes the hollow thud of her discarded boots sound too loud; the rustle that comes with removing her belt is too quiet. And all through this, Aeron can feel Alistair watching her. Perhaps she overdid it with the bit about the Chantry? Perhaps he’s cross?

“I thought you were out scouting with the women.”

“Hm?” Perhaps not. She glances over her shoulder. “I was!”

“Yes, but you said it would take several days,” Alistair reminds her.

“It was supposed to, but then it didn’t—” Aeron is only too pleased to kick aside her trousers. “The information left us chasing after griffons in alleyways.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“You thought what?”

“I just—”

“Hang on.” Aeron rises. The realization strikes her like a genlock’s boot to the side. “ _Hang on_ a minute—!”

“What?” When she turns to look at him, he has pulled on his smalls. The blush engulfing Alistair has only slightly abated. _“What?”_

“Did you… _plan_ for this?” She steps towards him. “For my being away? Do you—” She can feel another smile threatening to appear. “While I’m away! You little—”

“ _What?_ No! No, I don’t—!” He shakes his head rapidly. “I _don’t_ —why would I do—?”

But his face telegraphs the unique horror of being found out; eyes wide and bright as he sputters and scrapes for words to defend himself. His hands go up when she closes the gap between them, but he does not block against having her across his lap.

“While I’m _gone_!” Aeron says, laughing. “You naughty little Warden—!”

“I _don’t_ —!” Alistair insists.

“Oh, like there’s any harm in it!” she answers, hands at his shoulders. “There isn’t, you know. There’s no shame in having to—”

“Oh, and you’re speaking from experience, I bet!” Alistair draws himself up straight. His glare is a little more effective. “Are you? Do _you_ touch yourself on nights while I’m away?”

“Who says it’s only while you’re gone?” And the revelation seems to strike her beloved with the same force as lightning from a mage’s fist. Aeron only shrugs. “It helps me settle.”

Alistair swallows hard. His face begins to turn a deeper shade of pink, no doubt competing for blood against the erection steadily rising anew within his smalls. (At least, praise whomever he likes, he doesn’t look _guilty_ for it.) Aeron kisses him through laughter quickly swallowed by Alistair’s hungry mouth, and when she rocks her hips against his, the _moan_ he breathes into her is enough to spark a wonderful flash of warmth between her own thighs. His hands are needy in their exploration. They sneak their way under her shirt, seize upon the clasp of her breast band; toss the thing aside as soon as it comes free. Aeron breaks away to give a mock huff.

“Rude,” she tells him. “I just bought that.”

Alistair clicks his tongue, grinning. “You don’t like them, anyway.”

“That doesn’t change the fact—” But then his hands find their way to her breasts, and a shiver spreads over her skin as he massages them. “ _Naughty_ , naughty little Warden!”

“Let me repent by making love to you.” He looks up at her through his lashes, gaze dark and warm with lust. Breath drawing in sharply through his teeth, sounds of pleasure flowing out; his hands run down to her rolling hips, encouraging the friction of their motion. “I’ve missed my queen so.”

“And I have surely missed my king,” she says, enjoying the press of his mouth at her collarbones. She savors the way he melts into her touch as she drags her fingers through his hair; enjoys the way his teeth sink into his lower lip as if to try and quiet himself while she continues grinding against him. “I have missed you plenty.”

“Let me _show you_ just _how much_ —” Alistair moans against her lips. He reaches up to gently trace the curving lines of her tattoos. “My love— _please_ —let me—”

“Tempting…” And then, with a little smile, an idea comes to her. “Alright, then.”

“Yes—?”

Aeron takes his hands and sets them in his lap. “Show me.”

Confusion disrupts the lust on her lover’s face. When she cups his cheeks and bends to kiss him, Alistair pulls her in tight, hands dragging down her back and gripping the hem of her shirt—

“Ah-ah,” she tells him, straightening up. “No.”

“No?” Alistair half-pouts at her. “What—?”

“Show me,” Aeron repeats, returning his hands to his lap. “Show me how much you missed me.”

“Show you—?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Show you.” Alistair cocks his head to one side, eyes going narrow. Then it seems to hit him all at once; his eyes grow wide and his mouth makes different sound-shapes before he says, “You mean to say—?”

“I do, my love. I mean to say—”

“But—” A genuine whine rises from the back of Alistair’s throat. His brow furrows. “—but you’re _here_.”

“By mere chance, my dear, else you’d still be alone and lonely.” Aeron tilts his face to hers and flashes him that feline smile again. “Humor me. Show me how you keep that loneliness at bay.”

He whimpers softly. She bends again to kiss him and finds his mouth to be as hungry for hers as ever. He shivers as her fingers trace down the cascade of freckles on his shoulders and chest. One of her hands reaches up to cradle his cheek. As Aeron kisses along his strong jaw, she hears him breathe out in a deep sigh. There is movement from Alistair’s hands—subtle, but enough to understand without being told. Aeron shifts away from him—not too far, just enough to give him the space he needs—

“Don’t you dare go,” Alistair tells her, his voice a growl that sparks another bolt of warmth.

“Not far, my love. I promise.” She holds his face between her hands and graces her thumbs along his cheeks. “Tell me what you think of when you miss me.”

“As if you don’t—” His breath catches as he tries to find a rhythm. “I think of you.”

“But how?”

“What—” He swallows. “H-how you sound, mostly, just—”

“Look at me,” Aeron tells him, and he tries—he certainly tries. “You’re safe, my love. You’re safe here with me.”

“With you. Yes—I—” A tender whimper leaves his lips. A little smile is there and is gone in almost the same moment. “It’s how you call for me, sometimes—”

“Is it?”

“Like—”

“Alistair.” Aeron moans into his ear, needing to do very little in the way of pretending to match his desire. “ _Alistair_ , my king, my love—”

“That’s it—there—that’s—” He lets out a short laugh. There is, again, the flash of a smile. “Ooh, you _are_ enjoying this—”

“Oh, considerably.”

“Of course, you would—”

“Mind your tongue—” Aeron runs her fingers down his back. “—else I will find use for it.”

“Su—sure you will.”

And he sounds so _eager_ for the prospect of it, doesn’t he? Even in the midst of his own pleasure… And Alistair is _so very_ _pretty_ in the midst of it, isn’t he? With his fair skin flushed and hazel eyes gleaming like amber under torchlight… Oh, and then there are the _sounds_ he makes! The tiny whimpers, the little hitches in his breath—those things send shivers up and down her spine, sure, but it’s the unfettered moans that put heat under Aeron’s skin.

He knows it, too, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why he dares to quicken the pacing of his strokes, drawing ever closer to that delicious edge, before abruptly slowing down? Isn’t it, also, why he alternates from those impassioned moans to breathing her name in needy whispers?

Come to think of it, that might also be why Alistair’s left hand can slip so easily beneath her shirt to hold her hip; to wander upward past her waist; to finally…

Aeron shuts her eyes and lets the little shivers wash over her. “Alistair—!”

But he just laughs. “Love, you never said I couldn’t—that I couldn’t touch—”

“No, I guess not—”

And it certainly feels _good_ , the way he squeezes her breasts; the way the tip of his thumb traces circles until her nipples stand pert enough to lightly flick. She laughs, giving in to the act of removing her shirt. The look of pure reverence that comes across Alistair’s features is priceless—as if receiving a vision from the prophet Andraste herself!

“Maker’s breath—”

Aeron continues laughing. “You cheeky boy. Are you well and truly happy now? Is this what you’ve really missed? Hm?”

“You’re just so…” Alistair continues to run his fingers across her exposed skin, the rhythm of his right hand slowing. “You’re soft, so very… And warm. And somehow…you’ve chosen me…t—”

“Ah—!” Aeron seizes him at the wrist, drawing the hooked fingers of his left hand away from the front waistband of her smalls. She giggles when he blinks at her in confusion. “Quite far enough, I think.”

“Da—damn.” Again, with that whine, that furrowed brow. “S-so close—”

“And not close enough. Not quite yet.” She lets him go, content to let him resume tracing designs along her skin. “Unless you mean to say—”

“No—not—”

Alistair shakes his head strongly. He stops, gaze locked with hers, to briefly bring his hand to his mouth, to brush his tongue across his fingers before taking hold of himself once more. With the little grin he gives her, the little moan he breathes against her mouth as he pulls her down to him, the message is obvious enough, isn’t it?

_This could be you. Right now._

Soon enough, if he gets his way—and he might!

Perhaps, anyway.

But not quite yet.

Right now, this visual of her precious Alistair—flushed and half-undone and _so very eager_ for her—is a wonderful enough thrill. There is pleasure in the knowledge that she is so strongly craved. There is power in it, too, isn’t there? In being so strongly loved, so strongly desired, even in her absence? Aeron has learned that, continues to learn it with more certainty the longer they are together.

“I—Aeron, I—it—”

“Tell me.”

But he shakes his head instead. Alistair traps his bottom lip with his teeth, though it does little now to stifle the sounds of pleasure rising out of him. His eyes are tightly shut, brow furrowed. The pacing of his hand is faster, less controlled. He is closer now—well and truly close. She runs her hands over his shoulders, links them at the nape of his neck. When she bends to shower him with kisses, his left hand clings to her shoulder.

“Don’t go—” The words leave him in a gasp. His grip tightens around her shoulder. “Don’t you dare—”

“Nowhere far.” She presses chaste kisses to cheek, his temple. “I love you. Do you know that, Alistair? I love you so very much.”

“I—” He moans. “I love you. I do—I love—”

_“Alistair—”_

And that’s enough. That’s all he needs. He goes tense all at once, he cries out, he quiets to whimpers. (A small measure of his spent essence lands against her thigh. This, she does not mind.) And then—that’s it. The moment slips into something quieter, gentler. Alistair leans against Aeron’s chest, his left hand slipping down her back until he better adjusts the whole of his arm around her waist. She runs her fingers through his hair in the immediate silence, listening as Alistair’s breath comes and goes, comes and goes, comes and goes…

“That,” Aeron says at last, “was quite the experience.”

Alistair answers with a breathy chuckle. “Was it? Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Quite.” She smiles as he sits up to look at her. The blush is still very much there, but his eyes are clearer and his expression fond. “I should find some way to hang a mirror over the bedroll. Might have to ask Bodhan if he’s got one for sale—”

“Or we could just…pretend you did? Pretend he doesn’t have one? It _is_ an option…” He twists, one hand feeling around the immediate area surrounding them. “Where is that—? I swear it was _here_ —”

“What’re you looking for?” Aeron asks.

“My t— I have a little towel that… For after—”

Ah. Yes. The inevitable aftermath.

“There it—!” He wipes his hand and offers it folded. “Here—”

But she has no need of it. That much he seems to understand, even as his eyes go wide and his mouth tries to form shapes. Aeron merely shrugs and lowers her thumb away from her mouth.

“Salty, as to be expected,” is all she says, “but also a touch bitter—hey—Alistair, what—!”

“ _I’m_ the naughty one? Me?” He has her half-pinned beneath him before she can react, fingers finding all the places where she’s ticklish. “And you had nothing to do with that at all, did you? Not even an ounce!”

“I might—maybe I helped—!”

“ _Oh_ , she helped, she says! Only helped!”

“Y-you little—” Aeron, laughing still, smacks him playfully in the shoulder. “Let me breathe—!”

“As you wish.”

And he stops, slowly, but he does not move from being above her. Alistair shifts to be better positioned between her knees. This, too, is something Aeron does not mind. Not in the least. There is comfort derived from the warmth still radiating from Alistair’s skin, from the press of his skin against hers.

“Did you still want to make love?” she asks him.

He almost laughs. “Is that even supposed to be a question? ‘Course—”

“Yes?”

“—that might have to wait. I might need some time.” Settling back on his heels, Alistair traces out the southern ridge of her collarbones. “Still I think… I might just have a few ideas on how to pass the time.”

“Do you?”

Alistair gives only a little hum and nod. His fingertips draw downward and find diversion in tracing spirals around her breasts. They slope downward, travel along the channel of her sternum, feather-light and with reverence. Aeron shifts a little on the bedroll, the movement unnoticed as his fingertips wander further downward over scars new and old, circling around her navel, and—at last, after what feels like an Age—along the waistband of Aeron’s smallclothes.

The subtle lift of her hips does not go unnoticed. Nor does the small sound of need when he stops. Their gazes meet. When he gives her a knowing smile, her breath catches.

“Is that permission?” Alistair asks of her.

And Aeron nods, giving back that feline smile. “Show me what you have in mind.”


End file.
